Tailgating

[Guest]

Tyres squealed as the grime-caked Range Rover spun around a corner, sirens wailing atop it, the driver inside still coughing from the presence of smoke inside the vehicle's cab. One Alastair Carson, Chief of Carraig's police force, had simply been roaming around the streets of the city when he'd happened upon a small house fire - and more importantly, a figure on a clunky-looking yet deceptively fast motorcycle racing away from the scene of the rather dubious crime.

SOP would state that he was to initially call the fire service in, and wait for them to arrive before making any pursuits. Alastair wasn't drunk, and he was at the time of day when his hangover from the previous night had just about faded, but the adrenaline had now elevated him into a slightly more serious and alert stage than usual: to put it simply, Alastair was at his daily prime, more or less. He hadn't even let a drop touch his tongue - and, now, this had happened.

In all reality, the Creig Coffee he would've usually taken with his cereal this morning that he had today decided to forgo due to an apparent absence of both whiskey and coffee granules, was conveniently enough a good idea to leave behind. Alastair wasn't always lucky, but today felt like a day that he'd make a break.

But, yes, the fire service. He'd speedily dialled them in and made into hot pursuit of the figure speeding away from the scene, grunting now as the clunky car spun around the corner, and the unshaven, 'uniformed', stubble-sporting police chief wrestled the car back into control, and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. His pupils had narrowed, and he could see the offender on the horizon; if he could just get close enough to commit the plate to memory, and then they'd finally make some leeway on this.

This guy was an arsonist, and the worst kind. From here, he appeared somewhat rotund, but Alastair was squinting through a grimy windscreen in a less-than-able car going now at increasingly dangerous speeds. If it was the same man who was interconnected with half a dozen other cases over the previous month, if he could be linked, he would be tried, and he would be going down - hard. There weren't any deaths - they were all conveniently performed on vacant residences, as Alastair presumed this instance was, maybe intended to cause fear or as a series of warnings, perhaps omens for a further, larger plan? Alastair didn't know. Nor did he care. This man was either a terrorist, a pyromaniac, or a time-and-time-again shitty failed murderer. Either way, a criminal was a criminal.

And Alastair hadn't engaged in a chase with any criminals in a good few months - and seeing as Carraig was fairly quaint, he generally took it upon himself to personally oversee just about anything that involved any excitement whatsoever. He had every last ounce of faith in the capable Creig forces, just that... well... he was a sucker for action, himself, really, as seldom as it did come around.

Licking his lips and chuckling, Alastair muttered to himself. "Gotcha this time, you bastard," He outstretched a hand with a sigh, and moved it to the dashboard, flicking a switch; a siren pierced the comparatively silent veil of typical inner-city bustle hanging over the busy city streets, and a small cylinder atop the muddy Range Rover whined and wailed like a banshee that knew it wasn't going to see tomorrow. The damn thing even gave him a headache, but it was just as well that his guy knew the game was up: Alastair was on the job, and he'd been craving something like this for weeks, now.

With a sigh, he looked to the empty passenger seat, containing both of his larger pistols, his badge, his hip-flask, and a coat; Alastair now sat dressed only in a rather scruffy white shirt, and a pair of typical black slacks that he wore on-duty, above black walking boots. It was typical attire, for him; open-collar, but the shirt was always tucked in.

Drumming fingers against the steering wheel and squinting into the distance, Alastair sighed once more, and shook his head, his shout but a dull whisper beneath the shriek of the otherwise-subtle black cylindrical siren making its way through hundreds of revolutions a minute up above. Alastair adjusted the Range Rover's mirror, and put that little touch of extra effort into pressing down the accelerator pedal. "You, my friend, are going down today..."

Life's just full of surprises, isn't it?

[Dunstan Hue]

The dying lights of the city were not enough illumination to cast upon a lone figure, the rolling wind bringing a great chill with it. The buildings blocked the worst of it, but the night was an uncomfortable one, with almost no light by it. The lone figure had no trouble driving to the house undetected. His motorcycle was loud, yes, but not uncommon amongst these suburbs, and he parked it against a tree before moving in. His method of breaking in was brutally unusual - his foot crashed into the underneath of the door, the wood buckling enough to give his hands purchase, before he pulled the door up. Splinters fell across him as the whole door was yanked upward. Then the round man stood back, and watched as first the buckled hinges fell toward him, then the door itself. He caught it and set it back into place silently as he walked in. Abandoned, just as he had planned. On holiday, the family coming back tomorrow, but they wouldn't have a place to go. Hell, they'd probably make a ton off the insurance anyway, enough for a new house, so the figure clacked all of the dials on the gas cooker to full, casually throwing some bacon and beans in a pan and leaving it on the hob, and finally, a single lit cigarette, before leaving.

This was the fifteenth time Dunstan had pulled this stunt in a month. Ever since the accident that took half his face, since the ridding of his memories, he had vowed to get back into practise with everything he knew - his mechanics, his driving, and now his destruction. So Dunstan was bringing abandoned empty buildings into rubble, trying to get his knack for blowing stuff up back. He had gotten sloppy a few times - he knew the police knew at least six incidents of arson, but the other times were unaccounted for. In a few of the instances when he had used actual bombs, they had never been found. A grin widened on his face as a dangerous warmth stroked his back and the black night behind him became the orange of a blaze. He had certainly been on bombing missions of late - he hadn't forgotten the oddity of the Amestris incident, but he wanted to be sure of himself.

"Right, let's see if you're being in a good mood." He whispered to his beloved Princess, the bike which sat chugging. He mounted it, but gave one last look to the house fire; the wind, despite its chill, was strong and would fuel the flames even more, bringing more oxygen into the air. He'd be amazed if there was a rubble to observe. He rolled forward lazily, the Princess straining with a wheeze to get past 50mph, but Dunstan was happy with that. After all, why draw attention to yourself?

NYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAW!

"The fuck? Is that the fuzz?" Dunstan asked to himself, looking behind him. He was more bemused than alarmed as a Range Rover tore around the corner, the police siren blaring out of it as it began to give chase from the horizon and gaining. Sloppy again. Dunstan rolled his eye, then smiled slightly. Well, he hadn't had a chase in a while, and he needed to practise his getaways as much as the jobs themselves. He looked back to the Range Rover, then forward, a grin on his face as he sharply turned down a thin path before the main road, right back into suburbia.

"You want a chase? You've fucking got one."

[Guest]

Obviously, the figure on the motorbike had noticed his presence. Alastair smirked. Ought to give the bastard a fright, at least. He pumped the accelerator a few more times, the siren adequately translating into the desired message of 'get the fuck out of the way' for most civilians. Sure, they were the individuals the cynic was intended to actually protect and serve, and, well, instruct others on how to protect and serve, but if they were getting in his way, he couldn't really do his job.

And, yes, as much as he enjoyed a good car chase, even in this rickety-framed old bitch, work was still work. This was just the highlight of it all, really. That little rush software designers must've got when they finished part of a program, and ran it through to find out that it functioned clean as a whistle. When a janitor got up to the last floor on the job and discovered that it was already neat and tidy, courtesy of the homely residents themselves. Or when writers or artists put the finishing touch on a piece, and handed it in for review.

For each, it was a little buzz of completion, of productivity. It was slightly different for Alastair, but still, in many ways, the same; whether he 'won' or 'lost' in the chase, so long as he could just get the guy's numberplate, or his face... hell, even then, the bike he was riding seemed fairly one-of-a-kind... but he needed something concrete.

In the moment of recognition, it seemed, simply enough, like the perpetrator had left Alastair eating dust. He spiralled down streets and threw the Range Rover around corners hap-hazardly, only to see the now-definitely guilty motorcyclist turn off yet once more. Alastair growled, his brow furrowing; the adrenaline was fading, and with it, the synchronicity and speed of both he and the vehicle.

He was going to lose this guy - that much was truth, yet Alastair wouldn't accept it. He couldn't. True denial; he'd gotten the jump on him, and he'd finally uncovered the culprit at the end of this string, this multitude of blazes and smouldering ruins... only to find it lead ever further down a rabbit-hole. Slamming a balled-up, trembling fist against the dashboard in frustration, Alastair told himself he'd scrabble at straws; maybe his engine would cut out, or maybe he'd turn off into a dead end. Maybe he'd run out of petrol. Hell, half of Alastair's arrests had been made on 'maybe' and 'perhaps'. They were his two best assets.

So although he was losing, the race wasn't over yet; no matter how many times this man sped off as soon as Alastair turned a corner, no matter how many times he felt he was being toyed with, and no matter how many times he saw the inevitability of this entire operation slipping away from his grasp, he simply pressed his foot further down onto the accelerator, trying to siphon off some of his frustration and fury into this old bitch's fuel tank.

They'd cycled through a good amount of the inner business district, and now the man on the bike was leading him into the quieter areas of the city, the little cobbled off-roads that attracted less hustle and bustle than the high streets. More importantly, however, even to Alastair, who knew the city well, they were labyrinthine and daedalean; if this guy was a city kid, he'd be able to slip away easily. There were some areas of even a haven like Carraig where the police's presence wasn't appreciated, some of the grimier areas of the city, and hopefully that wasn't where this motorcyclist was going to lead them.

Sure, Alastair could handle himself, and had, in just about every bar in the city, either drunk after some failed op and managing to worm his way into a bar brawl, or just apprehending the odd suspect or two... but it wasn't his safety he was worried about - it was this scumbag's.

[Dunstan Hue]

Rubber scored against a long bitumen strip, Dunstan desperate to keep the pursuing Range Rover at as much of a distance as he could afford. The Princess was a clunky beast, and her slap-dash building method meant that she couldn't even come close to the speeds the vehicle that lunged at Dunstan was capable of, but he knew that no matter who was on the other end of that steering wheel, Dunstan was the better driver. He knew this fact as if it were a law of the land, and he knew that skill was his only chance against the sheer speed of the behemoth that chased him; his size, brute force and recklessness versus the speed of the police.

So every corner he passed he charged for, every ramp he found he leapt off, every car that approached he sped in front of and left the Range Rover to negotiate past, his fists curling around the handlebars and sweat seeping from his palm onto them. However, as tightly as he gripped the handlebars, Dunstan wasn't really that excited. The cop was relentless, certainly, but his driving was very predictable. It was all about charging right for where he had seen Dunstan last, and it was obvious that the driver was getting frustrated as the motions became more aggressive and the speed crawled only higher and higher. Dunstan just kept the momentum going, keeping the Princess' motions twisted and unpredictable, storming around the road like a frenzied animal. He had every trick in the book and some unseen by drivers at his disposal, and all he had to do was find an opportunity to leave the Range Rover in the dust.

That opportunity finally came at, of all places, a dead end.

Trickery and skill would get the Princess only so far; no matter how complex the route, the Range Rover would always be faster, and it would inevitably catch up every time he had thought he lost it, so Dunstan led the Range Rover down a series of complex alleyways, the roads getting narrower, the corners tighter, the miserable areas of the city's most grimy estate. He had one chance to completely lose this guy and he hoped against hope it would work. He beelined for a T junction, zooming as fast as the Princess would get without ramming into the wall blocking him. He spun around, and held his ground as he saw the Range Rover charge around the corner too. A grin uncurled on the half-burnt away face of the bomber as his finger teased a frighteningly large red button, the words 'Oh Shit' stamped onto them. It was a troublesome grin, wide enough for the driver of the Range Rover to see.

"The insurance on that lump of metal better be good," he chuckled, almost maniacally as he began to roll forward, the Princess making repeated unhealthy chugs and putts, whining and moaning under the strain. Then he slammed the 'Oh Shit' button with his thumb.

VROOOOOOM!

Like a lionness roaring to its prey, the Princess let out a growl that sounded more like the bark of Hades' attack dog emerging from Hell's gate than any motorbike's standard rev. That, however, was the least of the Range Rover's problems as an explosion engulfed where the motorbike was, only for it to emerge out of the flames. The Princess went from almost nothing to in excess of 200mph right into its side, sending the hefty car carreening into the air, standing only on two wheels as it lurched and slowly but surely overturned. The Princess, however, kept going, a singular trail of fire in its wake as it charged forth right out of the danger and into freedom. Not even the brick wall could stop it, the brick simply falling away. The vehicle kept going for almost a minute, blazing through the city and cutting through it like a hot knife through butter. Finally, the Princess slowed, chugged, the roar became a cough and then a splutter, until it ground to a miserable halt. Dunstan grinned widely. He had done it. He had escaped. "The perfect reason to celebrate..." Dunstan thought, getting off the bike and dragging it with him as he turned around and walked towards a new destination. "- with a good pint of beer and some salted peanuts. It's going from better to better for me."

[Guest]

All the pain that a single rolled-down window can bring you. Alastair had pressed the button and let the car's door vibrate and thrum, before, finally, the window edged back down with a mechanical hiss. He just wanted to let some air in. Now, the damn thing felt like it'd be the death of him.

Alastair caught a mental snapshot of the prick's face, scarred, half of it burnt away, pink, sore, and singed, unnaturally concave; the ginger fucker was going far too slow. Through the windscreen, Alastair squinted at him, watching as he eyed... oh, shit. Quite literally. A big, red fucking button on the dashboard. Well that was just great.

A moment later, and the streets exploded with wreaths of flame. Most people were well clear of it as the shit-heap lurched and spluttered, almost grinding to a halt before he slammed the damn button. Alastair had pulled the Range Rover just into the turn as he saw him thumb the button, and mid-way through, the flames engulfed both he and the car; and a split-second later, the concussive force of the blow struck, too.

The hefty SUV was sent flying a good fifty feet along, skidding and whining as Alastair wrenched the wheel and pumped the brakes no avail. Rolling onto its side in an instant, Alastair groaned as the airbags struck him straight in the chest, the car skidding along on one edge through the road. Civilians crowded around as he spluttered and gasped through the smoke, his ears still ringing, his eyes still stinging, his hands still trembling. "That bastard..." Alastair cursed the man with the burnt-out, pink-ish face over and over, time and time again, as the smoke seemed to wrap around him and condense once more. The stink of diesel hit his nose, a steady, ominous drip sound repeating, looping over and over like a sound clip set to repeat, or a broken tap.

The pain hit him, next. A swelling, throbbing, sharp, knife in his side, lancing through his body, muscles, ribs, and all. Alastair had been in car crashes before, though, and this was no different. His shoulders ached, and he spluttered for breath as he tore through the airbag with his bare hands, pulling it apart and letting the air puff out with a somehow less-than-currently-comical farting noise.

Grasping both pistols, his badge, and his hip-flask, Alastair put his foot onto the ledge of a shattered window, and managed to pull himself out onto a barely-scratched side of the Range Rover, sighing as he let his head fall back against the door frame, sprawled out atop it, just letting himself breathe for a moment. "You son of a bitch," Alastair gasped, coughing and spluttering, before he let his eyes flicker back open, and turned around to push himself off of the veritable wreckage he'd turned that beauty of a car into, dropping down once more.

Tucking the pistols into empty holsters over his shirt, Alastair sighed, and shivered, pulling a Motorola flip-phone from his pocket, snapping the top open, and tapping in the number he'd dialled so many times previously. The station. Hitting the call button and placing the receiver up to his ear as that irritating tone rung three times - barely audible through the barrier of ringing the police chief could only hear - and connected, he sighed.

Alastair knew who it was on the other end. He knew who it always was. He worked with everyone in that damn station, and he knew them all on a first-name basis. Hell, he'd shared drinks with all of them at least ten times. "Loretta, I was in a chase," Alastair sighed, placing a hand to his head and mopping up some of the blood from a light impact gash on the top, wincing as he prodded it another couple of times, gingerly. "Long story short, I crashed, the car's at a t-junction on West Dublin Street, get someone to pull it back in to the station, I'm going to the pub," An irritated tone hanging over his voice, he snapped the phone shut and slipped it back into his pocket, massaging his temples with two bare, grimy, calloused fingers, and headed off for the only thing that could help him right now.

A drink.

((I guess just have Dun screwing around and drinking or something, and lead up to someone opening the door, I'll have it be Al? Iunno.))

[Shula Brighton]

{BUMP}

[Dunstan Hue]

"Dunstan, I'll let you leave The Princess here for the night but you've got to stop pressing that button!"

The bomber's charred face held a large grin, the two ends of the bike chain clamping together on the smoking Princess, letting out a long sigh of weariness, before simmering into silence. Tonight was a bigger success than most; finally, for the first time since the accident, he felt like the smell of oil and of C4 and of sawdust lingered under his nose, as if an old friend was returning to him. He looked back up to the irritated bartender, a portly man glaring at him. Dunstan shrugged his shoulders.

"She'll fix. She always does." He explained, walking away from the car park and into the small pub, a poky box in the middle of Carraig's most grey district, all the paving stones cracked and the towering blocks of flats looking tired and aged. Dunstan immediately took to drinking and sat by the stage. Tonight was improv jazz night, and one of the more popular local acts, a young pretty woman whose hands danced across the saxophone's body as she blasted out a loud jazzy tune that was as fluid as it was fiery, much like the driving of the bomber with half a face gone. He heard a man walk in through the door and, after getting a drink, sitting by him. Dunstan looked over once with a beady blue eye, then back to the girl.

"She's not a bad girl, like." He commented. "She's no Davis, but give her a year or two I could see her face on an album cover, y'know?"

[Guest]

Alastair, bleeding, sweating, and disgruntled, stumbled through Carraig with the police badge on his belt on full display. It took him some time to find a bar he wanted to brace; with a defeat like this, he didn't want somewhere where he'd be too recognised. This asshole wasn't going to get the best of him - he'd see. He'd get a touch of whiskey in him, then turn around and lead the party back once more.

They'd find this damn arsonist. This terrorist. They'd put a stop to his reign of fire before too long. "Fucking motorcyclist prick," Alastair mumbled, looking slightly insane as he tipped the last dribblings of scotch from his hipflask onto his tongue, slipping it back into his pocket, greedily lapping them up, and pouting up to no-one in particular. The sun had long since descended from the sky, stars and a crescent moon hanging overhead.

At one point, Alastair stopped outright, and flipped it the bird, wondering if the man in the moon could see him, too. "I bet you don't like me, either," He grumbled. "Well you can go fuck yourself, too." The Creig Chief of Police finished abruptly, and moved back into a brisk walk, his heels beginning to hurt, as he moved into the first bar he could see. A small pub. A poky box in the middle of Carraig's most grey district. All the paving stones cracked amidst towering blocks of flats looking tired and aged.

Infact, it was the very same bar Dunstan Hue had stumbled into not thirty minutes prior.

Unaware entirely of this fact, Alastair stumbled in, and growled something about a beer and a shot of gin to the barman at the counter. At the slightest show of hesitance, Alastair raised the badge on his waist, sidling into a bar stool and keeping his head down as the saxophonist in the corner continued to force out a satisfying, calming, blues tune from her giant golden tube.

"Bad day, eh, Carson?" Alastair looked up to the barman, wondering initially who the fuck it wa- oh, Reg. Alastair grinned, and Reg pushed over a small bowl of peanuts, the policeman nodding sombrely in response, and tipping a handful back into a welcoming open mouth, inhaling the musty stench of the pub as he did so. Home sweet bloody home.

"You're telling me, Reg," Tipping up the shot and letting it singe his throat as it slid down the lawman's gullet, Alastair knocked his head from side to side, and released a hoarse sigh. "Some prick on a bike totalled my Range Rover. Department should cover it, but I've had enough of losing fucking chases, eh?" Another sigh as Mr. Carson eagerly dove into his pint glass, sipping from the very top, and unleashing yet one more sigh to complete his triumvirate, this time one of relief. "Fucking top, Reg. I didn't know you moved bars?"

Looking up to meet Reg's gaze, he saw a bead of sweat forming on the barman's head, confused initially at a worried glare over to the side. Scratching his neck initially, Alastair followed the look, until... "She's no Davis, but give her a year or two I could see her face on an album cover, y'know?"

The first expression was sheer, dumbfounded confusion at this man's idiocy. Of all the places, he came to a pub? To avoid Carraig's most heralded alcoholic... a pub? Really? Second came the bitter anger, the lust for vengeance and Al's just desserts, an inferno blazing strong in the pit of his stomach as the policeman snarled, finishing up his beer in an instant and heading straight for his shoulder holsters. And the third? The third made Alastair lick the beer-froth from his lips and smile maliciously. It was time to get a little fucking payback.

Drawing Gabriel from the right-most holster, and clamping a second hand around it, Alastair advanced slowly upon the man, releasing a stern line of speech. "If everybody would just please calm down," Immediately, the pub broke out into absolute chaos, screaming, shouting, bottles being thrown, patrons ducking beneath tables and chairs. "Oh, for fuck's..." No point being discreet now.

With a firm grip on the 9mm death sentence, Alastair aimed it square, over a number of ducking patrons, from the barstool, rising to his feet. "The game's up, you fat asswad," Alastair growled. "You've pissed me off, so, move, and I'll paint the bar with your brains. I'm sure Reg would appreciate a little pink on the colour scheme of this shithole." Alastair was usually a lot more diplomatic rational composed fluid with manoeuvres like this, and his threats weren't exactly doing anything to maintain an essence of calm over the bar. Fuck if he cared, though. He was going to get this asshole, hell or high water. Range Rovers were expensive.

The dim light of the pub danced across the engraving of Gabriel along the pistol's slide as Alastair grinned. The jazz music had long-since stopped, the young, female saxophonist having packed up her kit and headed straight for the door as soon as she'd seen the gun. "Try and drive your way out of this one,"

[Shula Brighton]

{BUMP}

[Dunstan Hue]

Dunstan's world went into chaos, and in the moment he froze. Furniture was upended, feet stamped, bottles thrown, obscenities screamed. Everyone was panicking, the musician fled the scene, terror clasped the pub around the neck in a death hold, and all Dunstan could do was sit completely still, the hairs on his neck standing on end and just knowing that whoever was on the other end of the gun was pointing it directly at him.

The game's up, you fat asswad. You've pissed me off, so move, and I'll paint the bar with your brains. I'm sure Reg would appreciate a little pink on the colour scheme of this shithole." It was a very dangerous voice, spoken with the hard edge of authority and the undercurrent recklessness of a drunk. "Try and drive your way out of this one."

"Look, mate, I didn't say she was perfect!" Dunstan whined back, slowly standing up with his hands in the air. "I mean, she's about half a decade or so off being on a record label, but I thought she was alright! She played passionately enough and a few dud notes aren't worth killing a man for!" As he said this, his head began to turn to face the gunman. Naturally, he didn't recognise Alastair, but he quickly noted that the gunman was bloodied and sweating, as if he had just come out of a car crash. Dunstan raised an eyebrow, holding back a snicker though unable to hide one side of his mouth curling.

"Woah, dude, you got fucked up!" He said without a hint of regret or fear. He'd had guns pointed to him before, probably. He didn't remember any of it, but he guessed it happened. "Of course," he thought, "- this means that I've got out of those ok. What could possibly make now different?" Like, major fucked up. You alright? Who did that to... you...

It was now that Dunstan noticed the glint on Alastair's belt. Specifically, the glint of light coming from the proudly displayed police badge. A great knot began to tie in his belly as he realised just how much trouble he was in. He gave an extremely sheepish grin, hoping that whatever he said next would make everything ok, without really thinking about what he was about to say. "... I could fix the Rover for a discounted price... would that help my case at all?"

[Guest]

"Woah, dude, you got fucked up!" Alastair snarled at Dunstan, the noise entirely unintelligible. The bar was still chaotic, but less so than it'd been thirty seconds ago; patrons were still scrambling for cover all around the place, but the police chief's eyes were firmly affixed upon the back of the arsonist's head. "Like, major fucked up. You alright? Who did that to... you..."

For a criminal, he was dumb. That realisation had come far too slowly - this man was a spur-of-the-moment criminal, and certainly no mastermind. Unless, of course, he was a scapegoat; Alastair's mind, however, was working so fast that as soon as this possibility came up, it was just as fleetingly dismissed and tossed aside: this was the man. Alastair had seen him, longcoat and all, grinning stupidly at him as he'd pulled the u-turn. Unless he had a conveniently similarly-scarred evil twin hidden away somewhere with a shotgun, ready to ambush Alastair, then he was just about fucked.

In a matter of moments, the bar was still; at least ninety percent of the initial patrons had scampered off, disappearing into the streets, into the blur of civilians, mixing back into crowds screaming, or slipping away to avoid the wrath of the probably-incoming police force. Someone - if not a number of people - had definitely dialled Carraig's finest - Alastair grinned maliciously to himself as the thoughts ran through his head. "We're already here,"

"... I could fix the Rover for a discounted price... would that help my case at all?" For a dumbass, he certainly had balls. Admirable amounts of gusto, and the apparent delusion that he had the charisma and charm to work himself out of situations with a man who was quite possibly currently the angriest person in Carraig, considering the country's usual lax and neutral state. Yeah... that wasn't going to fly.

In an instant, Alastair flicked the safety on, and slid Gabriel down, now holding the pistol by its barrel. Raising it up in a tremendous arc, far above and past his head, with a rather loud growl, the police chief brought the hilt of the pistol down to smack the arsonist at the crown of his plump, ginger head, making contact with a rather loud thwack. That would leave a mark.

Flipping the gun back into his hand, and pointing it at Dunstan, wherever the hit had left him, Alastair hissed in response. He wasn't often as furious as this, but when the snake charmers fucked up, and someone prodded him enough, he could certainly get very nasty, very quickly. "Does that answer your question?" Alastair muttered bitterly, his words now finally intelligible - that rather nasty swing had left him with a rush of quick-fading happiness, and a shot of adrenaline through his system. The initial anger had been dampened somewhat, but the policeman was still veritably pissed off; and things weren't looking good for Dunstan.

The dirty-blonde man paused, sighing, and pulling up a bar stool as to align himself with the man, sitting down upon it. "I'll be frank," He said quickly, wrenching a tray of peanuts from the table and pulling them onto his lap, spilling a liberal amount in the process. The lawman quickly clutched a handful, and tipped them backwards into his open mouth, dusting off his hands, and speaking as he chewed them. "I've half a mind to execute you here and bloody now for that,"

Then came the longest sigh of the day. A true, whole-hearted, breath in, and then exhaled a few seconds of silence later. Followed by that one word that made all the difference, that meant Alastair would see his desk, his house, and his hip-flask again, that meant Dunstan would survive. "But," Another handful of peanuts down the hatch as he flicked the safety back off of Gabriel, easing the hammer down just for a little more emphasis. "So long as there's no funny business, you'll survive your way back to the station. That bruise is all you'll get, and don't go complaining about police brutality," Another tired sigh, the dim glow of the bar's light sparkled across deep blue orbs, patrons hidden under tables that hadn't yet left whimpering as they eyed the HK2000 in Alastair's hand.

A pang of dependency hit the man's gut, and he groaned, reaching for the chromed flask of Creig whiskey at his hip. "I'd say that's a generous amount of payback for the twenty-five grand that Rover cost, eh?" A cheeky grin, Alastair's unshaven, hungover pallor contorting. No matter how deep that jab had been made when the ginger had blown him half-way into next week, now that he had the upper hand, and things weren't shifting any more, he felt a hell of a lot better. Maybe today was going to be productive, after all.

Unscrewing the lid, Alastair placed the brim to his lip, and tipped the container upright, taking the last of the half-full flask down his throat without batting an eyelash, gasping for air as he finished. Sighing, he screwed the nozzle back on, and slipped it back into his pocket, shaking his head from side to side. "Much better," The man clasped his hands together loudly, and rose to his feet.

"So, here's the deal. No funny business, you come quietly, and the judge gives you your sentence for the arson, and the assault of a police officer, and damages," He shrugged. "I've brought people in for worse," Skirting around the criminal, he smiled, crouching down to his height and muttering, extra close to him, a grin of giddy glee upon his face. "But, so much as start a fire in my city again, and I'll send you packing to Hell without so much as a second thought," He smiled, cocking his head, grey irises bursting with such malicious happiness. "Comprende?"

As an addendum, the police officer held out his hand, and continued the smile, opening his mouth to reveal a set of teeth stained over years of alcohol, coffee, and, well, living life on the wild side and not brushing his pearly whites on a regular basis. "Oh, introductions are in order. You might've heard of me," He said, shrugging, and narrowing his eyes. This'd be the cherry on the cake, the salt in the wound; insult to injury. This is when the arsonist would really know he was in the shit.

"Carraig's Chief of Police, Alastair Carson."

[Dunstan Hue]

CLUNK!

Dunstan's world went into a sharp and blurry mess. Agony pulsed through his skull as he fell forward, immediately clutching the back of his head. Every chair under him snapped from the weight crashing through until the splinters on the floor pressed into his cheek. He slowly pulled himself up, shaking his head to regain his senses. If he had known that the policeman could hit like that, he wouldn't have turned over the Rover at all. Even the various words that he said didn't process until they were long already said. "... so long as there's no funny business, you'll survive your way back to the station. That bruise is all you'll get, and don't go complaining about police brutality," came a drifting voice that brought him back to Earth.

"Argh! I am so calling police brutality on you, fucking dick!" Dunstan whined childishly, rolling himself onto his back and clutching the back of his head. He was annoyed now, and he didn't care if another hit came in just so long everyone around him felt exactly the same. If Alastair felt he had the upper hand in all other respects, Dunstan knew he'd have the advantage of not shutting up.

"I'd say that's a generous amount of payback for the twenty-five grand that Rover cost, eh?"

"Oh, so it's your driving that's shit, I thought I was doing you a favour wrecking it." Dunstan said, rolling onto his side and still clutching the bruise. It still felt like his head was throbbing, but the pain finally began to fade.

"So, here's the deal. No funny business, you come quietly, and the judge gives you your sentence for the arson, and the assault of a police officer, and damages. I've brought people in for worse. But, so much as start a fire in my city again, and I'll send you packing to Hell without so much as a second thought. Comprende? Oh, introductions are in order. You might've heard of me," said the policeman. Dunstan rolled his singular eye as he began to pull himself up. He probably used to know him, but the blast was good enough to take that memory away too. He was wondering if it was worth it.

"Are you the king of ponces?"

"Carraig's Chief of Police, Alastair Carson."

"... oh thank god!" Dunstan pretended to sigh in relief. He had a name and a rank, so he supposed that maybe there was still a way to bullshit his way out of imprisonment. Hell, maybe this policeman had amnesia too. "Good one, Al, good one." Dunstan said, before grabbing Alastair's hand before it was offered and pulled himself up. "You had me worried there for a second, mate. That gun looks pretty cool, proper realistic, where'd you buy it?"

[Guest]

"Argh! I am so calling police brutality on you, fucking dick!" Alastair sighed, and waved the gun around in the air, just so Dunstan - when his vision returned, at least - knew who exactly was boss here. The safety was off, and the light was dancing along the black sheen of the barrel's edge with ease, and Alastair grinned down at his quarry, his prey, today's catch - and he spoke.

"Shut up," A command, beautiful in his simplicity. He'd made the catch - in the same hour, his heart had dropped, and rose. And, now, he could grab a drink, take the bastard home, and sleep soundly with this fucker in overnight custody down at the station. He'd never set a building ablaze in Carraig again - the punishment had already been made very clear.

"Oh, so it's your driving that's shit, I thought I was doing you a favour wrecking it." Alastair sighed once more, and pointed the gun to the side, pulling the trigger, causing a loud crash to resound from the barrel of the gun, the room exploding with noise and whimpers from the few patrons remaining. The cartridge casing hit the floor with a light tink as the last echoes of the gunshot faded, and Alastair continued, his voice now gruff and even more hoarse.

"I told you to shut the fuck up," He snarled, continuing, brushing the smoke through the air with his hand. As it cleared, however, he smiled down to Dunstan, teeth bared in triumph. The gun still had another twelve rounds, all of which Alastair was confident could be in Dunstan's cranium in no time at all if the motherfucker kept acting up.

"Are you the king of ponces?" Alastair was speechless, staring at him with a stark, shocked look in his eyes, one eye hanging limb and in limbo, mid-movement, almost extended. He... with such risk to him, how could he fuck about like this? Sure, perhaps it was all lost... but either the guy had TRUE balls, or he was just plain fucking idiotic-

"... oh thank god!" ...what? "Good one, Al, good one." Who did this bastard think he was? "You had me worried there for a second, mate. That gun looks pretty cool, proper realistic, where'd you buy it?" He... the... what? The... gun... what?!

Oh... he was certainly pushing his luck now. Alastair snarled, and pushed the man away, pulling his hand from the shake. "Who the fuck do you think you are?!" He roared. "I don't fucking know you, and I told you to shut the fuck up!" The roars only escalated. "Try and fucking touch me again, you piece of degenerate scum," The bellow resounded through the room, and Alastair pointed the gun off to the wall, and fired off another three rounds. "And fucking see what happens!"

With that, Alastair dove at Dunstan, gun in hand, flicking the safety on, and swinging it round to press the point of the HK2000 pistol into the man's exposed torso, barely an inch above his collar. The logic behind this was simple, and one oft-used in interrogations in the days of the NCA. The more you fire a gun, wittingly, the more heated the receiver becomes. Unless you're using a weapon with a perforated barrel, so long as it's metal, that heat's retained anywhere from half a minute up to five or ten, depending on the weapon, its caliber, its size, its rate of fire... luckily, this burn only sizzled Dunstan's flesh for around ten seconds on contact, but it would still hurt, as Alastair wrested for control atop the man, trying to push it in further, before finally yanking himself back, panting as the arsonist suffered the consequences of his little manoeuvre.

"Ooh, nasty burn," He taunted, chiming in a sing-song voice. "But not quite as bad as the shit you've had before, I'm guessing, from that ugly fuck face of yours," The alcohol was rushing to his head. Dutch courage. He was roaring, now. Spitting his words through gritted teeth. "Come on. A little more fucking funny business. Please." He made in a mock-begging statement, seating himself upon the barstool once more. A sneer sat cockily upon his face, the gun grasped firmly in a steady hand.

[Dunstan Hue]

Dunstan didn't even bother hiding his grin as Alastair got more and more annoyed. It was why he was saying it, just waiting for his brain to work out a way out of this. Because there was a way out, he just knew it. He just had to buy the time to think. He was not getting that needed time, however, when the responses stopped being plain and simple variations on "shut up".

"Who the fuck do you think you are?!" He roared.

"God." Dunstan answered without a hint of irony.

"I don't fucking know you, and I told you to shut the fuck up! Try and fucking touch me again, you piece of degenerate scum," The policeman fired off three shots into the wall, each one sending out a huge boom. "And fucking see what happens!"

"Don't need to, I can hear you from here just..."

Dunstan couldn't finish his sentence before Alastair leapt at him with a rage unfit for a man of the force. The gun barrel shot straight to Dunstan's neck, just above the collar, and the heat from the metal burnt him dead on. "Argh! Get, off!" The fat bomber squirmed in pain, throwing his weight side to side trying in vain to get away. He ended up losing all balance and dropping to the floor again. The policeman finally got off him and began to tease him as Dunstan whimpered.

"Ooh, nasty burn," He taunted, chiming in a sing-song voice."But not quite as bad as the shit you've had before, I'm guessing, from that ugly fuck face of yours. Come on. A little more fucking funny business. Please."

Dunstan's moans, however, slowly became a chuckle. He rolled onto his back, a wide grin onto his face to match his captor's. "This is funny business? Ha!" He put his head back, grinning. "I haven't even begun to annoy you yet, Al. Just wait until I tell you in which hole I did your sister last night." Dunstan was asking for trouble, blissfully unaware of the real implications of what he just said. He sat up, waving his hand nonchalantly. "Cue the physical assault, though before you do, I should warn you that, as chief of police, you are way below my level. I'm drinking mates with the third most important man in the country besides me and the king, so one word to..."

A pause as Dunstan's amnesia kicked in.

"... whoever is the king right now... and you're out of a job." He explained to Alastair, getting to full height and leaning back onto the nearest table and nodding to the police chief, his voice taking on a sophisticated bark, more like an order from a military offical than from a stoner bomber.

"Now, get me a pint, small-fry. Carraig Pride if they do it, I'm not having any of that lager shit."

[Guest]

"I haven't even begun to annoy you yet, Al. Just wait until I tell you in which hole I did your sister last night." Alastair pressed his palm against his face... this guy was getting to be more of an irritation than a success. Murphy's law kicked in once more. It just fucking figured that the one guy he apprehended for a streak of arson was going to have a little snappy, snarky kick to him.

The policeman snarled. Well, he could fucking kick right back if he kept up. Once more, he lowered and levelled the pistol, training the sights on Dunstan proper. "You're actually a fucking child," He said, slightly uneasily, with a hint of disbelief in his voice. Captured by the police, apprehended, with the cavalry on the way, and he had the fucking nerve, the audacity to make jokes about his SISTER?!

Memories of Caitlin flashed before his eyes once more, and then fabricated images of this fat fuck flopping around on top of her. Rage peaked in Alastair's eyes, the ginger fuck having pressed one issue too far in all the wrong places. He shot forwards as if he were on fire, rage flickering about him like a glowing orange aura, terror and madness flashing in those deep blue pools he called eyes. "Say one more fucking word about her," He lowered the pistol, and pressed the cool edge of the muzzle against the man's kneecap with a snarl. "Go on. Fucking try it. Because I don't care if I lose my job, here. It's payment enough to ensure a fuck like you never walks again."

"Cue the physical assault, though before you do, I should warn you that, as chief of police, you are way below my level. I'm drinking mates with the third most important man in the country besides me and the king, so one word to..." A low growl began to form in Alastair's throat, but stopped abruptly. Drinking mates with... Fiachra? A confused smile formed upon the police chief's face, and he dropped back upon the barstool, letting a single, high-pitched chuckle escape from his mouth.

"F-Fiachra?" He repeated, this time, out loud, followed up by another short, explosive chain of giggles. What the FUCK did Fiachra want to do with this lowlife piece of scum!? It was almost funny. A) If it was a lie, it was a poorly-conceived one. B) If it was truth... it was something for him to rib Fiachra with later. The laughter came forth properly, Alastair waving the pistol around as he almost doubled over, tears forming at the corner of his eyes. Before long, as the bucking noise faded from his throat, hoarse tones came next as he tried to push the remnants, the aftershock of the giggles away with regular speech, hand cutting through the air in a wave gesture. "Yeah, great, incredible, whatever, mate."

He slumped back into the chair. "I've known Fiachra for seven years. He's a good, close friend of mine, and one you're not going to exploit, unfortunately," Alastair sighed. Ah, that was funny. "You're shit out of luck, fat man." That trademark, assertive grin of his. The grin that so many criminals across Carraig had bore witness to. The hope-shattering, dream-crushing, escape-destroying grin that basically, simply enough meant 'you're fucked'.

"Now, get me a pint, small-fry. Carraig Pride if they do it, I'm not having any of that lager shit." Alastair made a long, drawn-out 'pfffffffft' sound, spluttering with laughter as he did so, training the gun back on him once more and shaking his head, his entire body shaking in absolute denial and partial disbelief of the nerve this fuck had.

"Get it yourself, you ginger wanker. That is, if you want to risk a bullet in the shin. But, by all means, be my guest." Sirens wailed in the distance, hopefully destined for Reg's pub. Maybe they'd get here before Dunstan pissed him off too much, and maybe the bomber would still be alive. Chances weren't looking likely at the rate things were progressing.

[Dunstan Hue]

Alastair's reactions were nothing Dunstan wasn't expecting. The bomber imagined this more of a verbal game of wits and chess than what it actually was; Dunstan flinging poorly conceived insults in Alastair's direction and getting threats back in reply. The worry only really came when Alastair mentioned that he had known Fiachra... Fiachra... he was one of the guys at Toss' party. Which one, though...

Oh. That's right.

"You're shit out of luck, fat man."

Dunstan's fingers suddenly clicked as his one-eyed gaze hardened, trying desperately to emulate someone far stronger and more important than he was. After all, he really was the cream of Carraig's crop in his mind's eye, and he expected to be treat like it.

"Shut up and listen before you lose your job, Al. I can go running back to Fiachra, or Toss, or that chick with those massive boobs..." He stopped for a moment, completely breaking his own authority. "... I mean, they are huge, and she never wears anything but a bikini top and gaaaaaaaaaaa..." He stopped to use his hands to squeeze at them as if they were in his hands. "She even rides a motorbike. That lucky fucker who got her first, I should just level his down and... ummm... right, you're still here." He looked back to Alastair, completely forgetting where he was for a moment. He tried to regain his composure and keep the momentum of a threat he hadn't even planned out, not even to the next word. He just had to keep the command going. "But yes! Anyone of those can end your career right now, which is far better than what I'll do if I get thrown into jail. Believe me, I know how to break things, and smash things and crush things, and the last place you want me is in a small confined space with your name and rank on my mind." He began to walk towards the bar, grabbing a pint glass and placing it under a spout, pushing on the tap gently and filling up the glass. Remembering the reaction to a mention of his sister, Dunstan decided that now was the time to go for broke and throw one last stinging knife at the police chief.

"So as much as I enjoy this dance of words and wit, in the country of losers, the friend of everyone and king of all things sexy and awesome is king. Besides, you're a fucking boring man and I can end you in a second. So, can I get back to ploughing your sister's arse or are we done here?" With that, he brought the beer to his lips. He glugged almost the entire thing in one go, his gag reflex not even twitching as he chugged it, before dropping it a little to speak. "Want one?"

[Guest]

"Shut up and listen before you lose your job, Al. I can go running back to Fiachra, or Toss, or that chick with those massive boobs..." Alastair chuckled, shaking his head once more. Man, this guy was naive. He was the Chief of Police. He investigated and apprehended anyone he fucking wanted to. Dozens of people had threatened him with death. Even before his job. Hell, he'd worked under Fiachra... Operation Gladius... it had... yeah.

"Artemis, right?" He shook his head, planted both hands on the bar, and jumped over it with a single vault. He was hungover, and pissed off, but still, the training had done wonders. Reg had long since left, so Al figured he'd help himself to a little of the top-shelf stuff, considering his hip-flask was bone dry as of about thirty seconds ago. With a single hand, he reached up as far as he could, and grabbed the tallest bottle of Smirnoff he could see. Good, strong, Drachman stuff. Well-made, hit you like a train if you didn't know how to drink it. "About three months ago, I spent a week or so guarding the King himself because she needed a favour. I don't exactly think she's going to sell me out." He sidled up to Dunstan with a smile, animal cunning shining through like a veritable beacon.

"Toss wouldn't even have the go-ahead for half of his projects if I didn't give the say-so on some of his more dubious ingredients. I let him have a sift through the contraband boxes every now and then, because he's a good friend." Another sigh as Al scratched at the stubble under his chin with a free hand, setting the bottle down momentarily. "And Fiachra, I'm going to meet in about..." Alastair pulled back his sleeve and took a gander at his shabby twenty-dollar wristwatch briefly, before letting go. "Two, three hours, to drop back a few beers and have an enjoyable night, safe in the knowledge that you're rotting away in a Dublin 24-hour jail cell."

He unscrewed the bottle single-handedly, still clutching the gun with ease. Alastair flashed the man a brilliant, toothy grin, just reading 'I'm an absolute arsehole, and I'm winning' straight-off. Things had turned around. Well, for now, at least. Alastair would always have the upper hand and the power, but he wasn't letting this ginger fuck undermine him any more. "So, I reiterate: you're shit out of luck, fat man."

"Believe me, I know how to break things, and smash things and crush things, and the last place you want me is in a small confined space with your name and rank on my mind." Momentarily, Alastair put on a mock face of concern, before he vaulted back over, and tapped his chin slowly. Well, now, this wouldn't do...

"Well, I certainly believe you, after that display, but you're going to struggle doing that empty-handed, with only your underwear," Alastair explained further, levelling stairs with the man as he took a quick swig from the full bottle of Smirnoff, sighing and staring at the lukewarm liquid as he lowered it from his mouth, holding the bottle steadily by its body. "Oh, let me explain. Once we get back to the station, I'm going to get Nigel to strip-search you. A full cavity search. He's fairly vigorous, and not exactly in the best of moods, all things considered," Pause for suspense, pause for suspense, Alastair... "He broke up with his boyfriend last week." The most evil of grins stretched across Alastair's face as he took another swig, shaking his head, as if to say 'your move'.

Sirens were getting stronger with every waking moment, but Dunstan still tried the patience of the most explosive of policemen in all Dublin.
"So as much as I enjoy this dance of words and wit, in the country of losers, the friend of everyone and king of all things sexy and awesome is king. Besides, you're a fucking boring man and I can end you in a second."

Alastair snarled in response, levelling the gun at his face as he moved around to the other side of the bar. He'd let him go for now... just for now... but he wasn't getting off scot free there. A little bit of fear and pain never hurt anyone. "Fucking try, you egotistic shithead. I'll blow your brains all over this room before you can count to four if you so much as goddamn try anything."

And then, of course, he just had to push it further. The smarmy, ginger bastard did the one thing he really shouldn't have. He said something more about Alastair's sister. "So, can I get back to ploughing your sister's arse or are we done here?" At first, Alastair stood still, and simply paled, as more images of Caitlin, and her funeral, flashed before the blonde man's eyes, his features contorting as contours formed on his face.

"I told you," He spoke coolly and calmly, gripping the bottle of vodka even more firmly as he looked up at those burns. They looked nasty. And raw. The sort of burns that would REALLY sting if you poured certain liquids onto them. "Not to fucking mention her again."

In a jerking movement, Alastair rose the entire bottle and forced it forwards and upwards in an arc, a geyser-like wave of almost an entire half-litre of vodka sliding out of the nib of the bottle in a single throw. The glass itself stayed firmly in his hand, but the liquid made its way towards Dunstan with haste as Alastair threw the bottle to the side, leapt atop the bar, and eased back the hammer proper all in a single movement, aiming the HK2000 down at his feet, and launching off another six rounds of his twelve towards the floor, dangerously close to Dunstan's feet, howling viciously down to the rotund ginger man. "DANCE, YOU MOTHERFUCKER, DANCE!"

Maybe it was the alcohol, and maybe it was the adrenaline, and maybe it was the sheer lack of care for anything that had happened today, but Alastair was really starting to enjoy himself. The signature wailing of blue-and-white Ford Mondeos resounded close-by. The cavalry would be here in a few minutes, maybe less. The smell of cordite stung Alastair's nostrils as he stepped back down and eased the hammer back off, turning to face Dunstan and admiring his handiwork.

[Shula Brighton]

{BUMP}

[Dunstan Hue]

"I told you," Alastair began, a cold venom in his voice, the Smirnoff bottle rolling slightly in his hand. Dunstan watched it, the liquid looking like shards of glass in the dying light of the pub. He once liked vodka, did Dunstan, but he knew that alcohol and his scarred face met only with a hideous and agonising clash. "Not to fucking mention her again."

"I don't know why you hate her so much, I've slept with skankier women." Dunstan commented, casually, before bowing his head forward. The vodka splashed against the wall behind him with a loud "pssh". He grinned, feeling quite proud of the dodge.

BAM!

Dunstan's eyes almost leapt of his skull in shock, his ears ringing as the bullet planted into the floor between his feet. He threw himself back, but the gunshots followed, every inch of the floor becoming perperated, edging dangerously towards him. "DANCE, YOU MOTHERFUCKER, DANCE!" Alastair shouted in a vicious rage, and dance Dunstan did, fear locked right into his eyes. Now he was scared; he was never without bombs on his person, and today he was wired to the bone. A single spark out of place and him, Alastair and the entire city block disappeared forever in a blaze.

"DON'T SHOOT THERE, YOU CRAZY DRUNK!" He pleaded, a much shakier voice than the confident, nay arrogant wisecracking snake from before. A desperate fear gripped him. He really thought he could simply buy time with his talk and leave, even if the threat of friends in high places didn't work, but now he felt that every second counted. Dunstan immediately stopped enjoying the banter; this guy was far too loose to be allowed on the trigger end of a gun, not with Dunstan packing the heat was. The trenchcoat stopped the sparks and flames from the Princess setting off any of the multitude of bombs he carried but a bullet is not stopped by mere leather. The police chief finally stopped shooting, and got down from the counter and was turning to admire his handiwork. The bomber grabbed the pint glass he drank from earlier and clapped it straight into the police chief's head, trying desperately to get him out of commission. The glass hit with a heavy thunk but failed to shatter, but Dunstan remedied that with a solid whack against the counter of the bar, leaving the pint glass' top half replaced with a wave of jagged daggers.

"Al, I told you confined spaces were bad to put me in!" He barked, before swinging the glass in an overhead motion. The glass slashed at the policeman's gun-wielding hand, a crimson line coming across the knuckles with a horrible slice and forcing him to drop the gun. Dunstan swung two more times with his weapon in a wild manner, trying desperately to force him back.

WHUMP!

Dunstan didn't really feel the hit connect. He just found himself staggering back involuntarily, his head thrown back from an uppercut. It was with a pathetic stagger that he fell backwards onto the floor, unable to hold consciousness, and his eyes forced themselves shut.

Out like a light.

[EXIT THREAD. DUNNO IF YOU WANT TO END WITH ONE LAST POST OR LEAVE IT THERE, CHOICE IS YOURS]

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